Thursday, 29 August 2013

You're never too old for a new start.

Well I've done it. I've finally come reluctantly into the 21st Century, the modern age, the blogging phenomena. I'm actually (yes) blogging from my brand-spanking-new iPhone! It feels weird to be doing it, after all I've kind of come to associate blogging with my lovely little laptop. It's funny to think I'm now able to write on-the-go and post a thought immediately. It's kind of cute anyway in my eyes.

So, summer is drawing sadly to a close, and as every second ticks on, I realise that I'm one reluctant step closer to turning the horrendously big 2-0. However, there are upsides to this. As autumn approaches, so does the new uni semester, meaning that I get to see my three fave girls again, which I'm super excited about. (Hiya girls!) The workload, well, you can practically hear my brain sighing lazily as I even just mull over the idea. But then I guess the good things in life usually (we hope) outweigh the bad. Meaning this; when winter draws bitterly in, we'll appreciate the summer more when it arrives again next year as promised. When it rains, we know the heavy downpours are only temporary and its only a matter of time until it lets up. Sadness makes us realise how happy we usually are, loneliness makes us appreciate company and loss makes us grab love between our fists like an iron vice. 

So come at me winter. I'm ready, with my Hunter wellies and my parka, for anything you can throw at me. I'm ready to kiss goodbye to sunny nights and embrace cosiness and thick duvets for a few cold months. There's no reason for me to be unhappy any longer.


(I had to add a cheeky little PLL reference in there, I mean OMG!)

Sunday, 25 August 2013

Mine's a coffee.

As I stand waiting, less than patiently in the queue in Starbucks, on a rainy Monday morning, there's only one thing that is keeping me from a violent outburst. The sweet aroma of my favourite thing ever. Coffee. As the smell of freshly ground coffee beans drifts past me, I feel me lips curl up into a sort-of smile. My fuel for the day. My drug of choice. My poison. The pick-me-up I am forever craving. The addiction I am somewhat proud of, and of course, the thing that quickly, effortlessly transforms me from murderous bitch to normal, civil human being. A quick shot of caffeine flowing intravenously through my veins and I'm capable of anything. It's like I'm Jekyll and Hyde and with caffeine, rather than some weird concoction of narcotics and potions. I'm transformed into the better person, my better self. I feel myself itching for a fix, like an addict displaying first stage withdrawal symptoms. A pounding headache, a dry mouth and an overwhelming sense of need. I'm really no good without it.

Friday, 23 August 2013

Bank Holiday banter.

No matter what you're drinking, raise your glass.

It's well known, I consider drinking one of my hobbies. Yes. Seriously. My little 5"2 self always fancies having a couple of drinks. Translation: getting absolutely, painfully, stupidly, hysterically, blind drunk. It's not advisable, but hey, I've got a reason this time. If you haven't guessed, or known already, it is officially BHW or in English, Bank Holiday Weekend. One of my favourite times of year. There's been far too many bank holidays for my liver to handle or my body to cope with this year, but I have to give credit where it's due. Silly as it sounds, but my local watering holes have actually served other purposes, minus exchanging my crumpled notes for poisonous, amazing liquids.

Yes, I spend a great deal of my time between one or two pubs in particular. Anyone who knows me is now thinking of the names in their heads. I'm a local. A regular. The bouncers know my name. It's serious. But for me, it's a lot more than that. Since turning the legal age of 18, but especially the big 1-9, these places have been significant for me. If those walls could talk, the stories they'd whisper would probably ruin my life, but that's another story. These places have witnessed friendships broken and made, relationships starting and ferociously ending and drunken antics in full-swing. They've seen me at my best, looking sober, happy, and other times, in tears, in pieces. They've heard some home truths and some of the biggest lies I've ever told. They've glimpsed at stolen kisses, raging fights and full-blown arguments, and not judged. There's been tequila and sambuca and jagerbombs and lots and lots of vodka flowing. The discovery of Desperados, "two for £5, thank you very much." Pints of absolutely anything, pitchers of whatever we could lay our hands on, absolutely anything that provides for partying fuel. Our poisons, our refreshments, our liquid energy. The good times, the bad times, and the downright unspeakable times. I've had some brilliant laughs there, occasional heartache and made far too many legal mistakes.

Despite this, I truly think there probably isn't a time that I'm happier than when I'm all glammed up, heels in tow, crisp £20 notes stowed-away in my purse, fresh from the cashpoint just ten minutes previously. A drink in my hand, meeting my friends at the bar. A catch-up, a social gathering, a few laughs, or a total binge. Whatever the occasion, we're there. This weekend, will be bank holiday. I've never missed going out on a bank hol since I turned eighteen, and I'm not about to now, even if I have to be up early on Monday morning. (reason: I'm going to Leeds.) I'm excited, and happy, and actually starting to think my life is surrounded by positivity.

I'm not saying I only have a good time when I'm drunk, because that's really daft. I'm just saying, alcohol may be the foundation of some of my greatest friendships ever. For example, as I'm writing this, my friend Sarah and I are contemplating sobriety until Sunday. We wonder, via text, whether we can stay teetotal for necessity, rather than preference. So I'm ready to go crazy, have the time of my life and languish in knowing that this Sunday will be the last of the year. I'm slightly saddened by this. Bank Holidays bring everyone at home together. We usually all flock back from uni, everyone urgently attempts to get time off work, and all other non-alcohol-fuelled plans are abandoned. This is a time to celebrate everything that's good in our lives, and forget, even just for one night, what isn't going so well. In my book it is, anyway.

So, cheers everyone! I hope you all have an amazing weekend. I hope you're all happy and drunk and smiling on Sunday. I know I will be. Surrounded by some of my favourite people, there's nothing better. I'll know then, with a drink in my grasp, that at least for then, V-O-D-K-A really does spell happiness.  Not for what it is, but for what it represents.

Thursday, 22 August 2013

Call me Duffy Moon.

"you can do it, duffy moon." -JJ.

The girl with the wry smile that creeps slowly across her face when no one is looking. The one who just disappears for hours with no explanation and returns later, expressing too many emotions to put your finger on. She spends her time reading and writing. It's not only her passion, but it's her escape. When life in the real world gets too much, that's what she does, and it's kind of perfect. Shut the doors, shut everyone out, and indulge in a passion that will continue long after she's gone. It's hopeful and endearing and dangerous all at once. Those pages hide so many secrets, so many lies, so many passions. Those words aren't just dreamed up, they are her dreams. What she writes, is what she envisages in her own future. That's her way of putting her dreams into reality. Making it physical. Putting it down on paper. Maybe it's not everyone's idea of dreaming, but it's hers. It's all she's wanted for as long as she can remember, and if she doesn't get it, she doesn't know what she'll do. She never stops writing. There's always something to write about. It doesn't matter that every piece she writes isn't up to publishing scratch. It's not for them, she writes because she needs to. Approval isn't necessary, from them, from you, from anyone. But if you do, even better. That girl will always be a dreamer. She's destined for big things. Huge things. That notebook by her bedside harbours her deepest desires and her biggest secrets, and some of the greatest 3am ideas anyone has ever had. All you need to do is remember this name, you'll see it in flashing lights one day. Duffy Moon.

Thursday, 15 August 2013

My wish list.

Yes, another list. What a surprise. This time, I'm writing a wish list. Things I want right now. Things that, at this precise moment, would make me happy, turn that straight face into a smiling, refreshed one. So, the moment of truth, what are they?

1. an iPhone. Yes. I feel totally out of the loop with my BlackBerry perched less than lovingly on my knee right now. I loved it once, but the love affair ended when all of my friends, family and even mere acquaintances started to get updates. The iPhone. And now, like every other typical, naive, gullible consumer, I want one too. I feel left out, I feel boring. I feel like this is exactly what I need in my life now to step my positivity up a notch. I want the works, the whole shebang. The apps, the snap-chatting and the Instagram. All of the things that non-iPhone users get bombarded with daily all across the internet. Call me materialistic, I probably am. I'd really like one though.

2. Coffee. This will always be one. There isn't enough coffee in my life ever. Even as I sit with a coffee by my bedside right now, I'm thinking of my next opportunity to venture downstairs, into the kitchen and boil the kettle for what will be the fifth time today.

3. Nail varnish that doesn't chip. And dries as quickly as it claims. A girly want, obviously. It's my pet-hate. Quick dry nail varnish that doesn't actually do what it says, then you end up with it everywhere. Or, I do anyway. Maybe that's just a sign that I'm far too impatient, I dunno.

4. A plane ticket to New York. This one is probably a given too. My cousin Sophie and I spend far too many hours each week contemplating when we will actually, finally, hopefully get ourselves to NYC. The latest verdict is that we'll go in 5 years when Sophie is 21, so we can actually fully enjoy The Big Apple. It will happen, I assure you. Soon though, probably not.

5. A decent night's sleep. I'm not feeling too good, and haven't been for almost a week now. Although I'm in recovery, I still feel like I haven't had what I'd class as a decent night's sleep in forever. It's well overdue, and in high demand.

6. A pair of Levi jeans. I've harped on about this forever. To my family, my friends, and all of my Twitter followers. I have a craving for some, although I can't really finance my shopaholic tendencies just yet.

7. A lottery win. Again, this one is a dead giveaway. Most people want this, and the people who don't, well, it must be fine and dandy to think you've got more than enough money to be able to decline a lottery win. Btw, I'm talking about a proper lottery win, like the kind you sell your house for, the kind that changes your life and enables you to buy a holiday home somewhere exotic. I fantasize about this moment. A lot.

8. To be happy. Oh good god, shoot me already! Is that a cliché I've just spat out? Oh dear, Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor. Now that was stupid, wasn't it? I might as well get a teardrop tattooed right now. I mean, it's like an unspoken rule. Everyone wants happiness, but actually voicing it out loud, maybe that's the biggest taboo of all. It's like, everyone feels the same towards that little thing we call happiness. But if it's so simple, why does it seem so, I dunno, unattainable, so out of our grasp? Maybe that's just me, with my negative attitude and my ability to mess up things so easily.

9. Fame. Okay. Scratch the previous entry, this one here may be the real taboo. I've admitted something here I never thought I would. See: previous post. I've blogged about, talked about it, wrote about it. The fact that, in my eyes, wanting to be famous is like choosing to get into a car you know is going to crash. It's risky, it's ill-advised, and in most events, really stupid. It's not even ambitious, it's just naive. It's like hoping it doesn't happen, hoping for the best even though you truly know it's against all odds. So, yes. I've decided, after a long, hard think, this is what I want. I want fame, fortune and everything that I so bitterly despised a few months back. I want my name in flashing, gaudy, florescent lights, I want the money, the success, the infamy. You're now wondering, how, yeah? Well, I want to write. I want to be a writer. Whether that means in novels, newspapers or any other sort of journalism, that's what I want. I haven't gone all specific yet, I'm keeping my options open, but that's what I really want. I know it is. It's just an instinct. I want fame, and going into my second year of University, I'm more ready than I'll ever be, to grab it with both hands, and never let go. I'm ready for you fame, I'll take everything you throw at me. As long as you keep your part of the bargain.

Tuesday, 13 August 2013


(Btw, this post has been posted like 20 hours later than it was written.)

It's nearing midnight and I've already been in bed, trying, somewhat hopelessly to make myself feel better. I'm experiencing such an awful cold. My chest feels like it will cave in at any moment, and my smoker-like cough isn't helping, despite the fact I've never ever touched a cigarette. It's exhausting. I keep temporarily losing my voice and become able to do that husky/whispery/creepy voice like Voldemort. Humorous at times, but the funny side begins to run thin when you're in as much pain as I am. I guess I have myself to blame, partly, and partly my stupidly, newly-weakened immune system, but I guess I can't always go around blaming biology when I mistreat my body as much as I have been. I'm armed with my iPod, 861 songs, god knows how many hours of music at my fingertips and strumming into my ears. Willing to try anything to make myself sleep now. I've had texting marathons, scoured Twitter for hours, watched the Friends two-hour finale and snippets from Peter Kay's Tour That Didn't Tour Tour (which I also can quote word-for-word!) I've doped up on painkillers, cough sweets and caffeine, and they haven't worked either.

So...Why is it partly down to me? What have I been up to to get myself in such a mess? My untimely, hideously rough state...Well. Little old me who vowed (stupidly, naively, hopelessly) to stay in on Friday night for a (miraculous) change, ended up out. Obviously. Anyone who knows me, knows I do not stay in on a Friday night, like, ever. Yes, I can sense your surprise already. Major shock. You best take a sear, we don't want you fainting on me now do we? There's a certain irony around the fact that I'm an English student and yet I don't seem to grasp the meaning of "just a few drinks." I'm a very much all-or-nothing kinda girl. Not just with alcohol, with everything. I'm either hysterically upset and depressed and moody and sad and hateful, or I'm happy and high and smiley and loving and totally giddy. I either am (only occasionally) really careful with my money, or I manage to splurge every penny I have in my purse in ten minutes flat. I'm either quiet or really very loud. I either go bitchy or seriously nice. I went from being a shy girl to an overly-friendly drunk. How? I was introduced to a lovely little thing the Russians named Vodka. Cue my shy self to sometimes disperse completely, and my overly-friendly self to put in a sometimes unwelcome appearance.

I know what you're thinking; "okay, everyone's more confident when they've had a drink" or ten. Yes, that's why they call it dutch courage. Well, I'm certainly a shining example of what the effects of alcohol really are. If you're reading this and judging me, and ready to brand me an alcohol abuser, go ahead. You're wasting your breath, and energy. :) Anyway, yes, I have a tendency to drink too much, but I'm a student, it's part of the deal you sign when you apply with UCAS. (okay, it's an unspoken rule.) Anyhow, I tend to be what the Oxford Dictionary know as a "lightweight." I go from sober to drunk in the blink of an eye. I don't know why, but it's very rare I build up to a "drunk" state. I just somehow happen to arrive there, slightly clumsily, and without very little dignity in sight. I mean, suddenly you find yourself on your own, separated from friends, and it hits you. Everything goes blurry and seems to speed up then slow down and it's as if everything's out of sync or something. A very good, or a very bad feeling, depending on who you are and what your opinion actually is.

So, how does this relate to the post's title? Well, I got to thinking of a metaphor for my latest life events. Yes, it all sounds very geeky and deep and profound. I assure you that it doesn't tally. At first, I played around with the whole train-wreck/car crash image, but those were too miserable, too negative for what I was trying to convey. I mean, at times, yes, I suppose that applies, but my life isn't a constant train-wreck. I'm not always left picking up the pieces, hurt or distraught. And that's when it hit me. Literally. A pendulum. A pendulum, for anyone who actually doesn't know, swings backwards and forwards, according to the earth's gravitational pull. It is a constant. It carries on going. It is continuous, until it draws to a close, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Surely that's like life, yeah? Also, it's kind of funny in my eyes that the word 'pendulum', derived from the New Latin 'pendulus' to mean 'hanging.' Yes. I'm not totally stupid, I know it means a literal form of hanging, as in, to be suspended from a height or a cord or something, but there's another meaning I'm probably more familiar with. 'Hanging' the slang use, to mean the verb of hungover.  Therefore, in my little, messed-up, slightly mad head, my life is like a pendulum. It rocks backwards and forwards. Sometimes the movements are easy and the action takes no effort at all, and other times, it's hard, difficult. The forces are imbalanced, everything seems a struggle. It's just like Monday mornings in physical action form, ey?

Anyway, that's my thing. That's my theory. I'm a pendulum. We all keep swinging. Swaying. Continuing. Life is just like the movement of a pendulum. The glitches are very evident sometimes, and other times you barely notice the faltering. If you hit something, it hits back. The domino effect. But always, the pendulum continues, despite what happens. Despite what obstacles it encounters. We carry on in life, no matter what troubles and problems we encounter. The bad days are balanced by the good days, the tears are comforted by the smiles and the laughter. And always, we carry on moving. Until, we don't.

Saturday, 10 August 2013

I don't like today much.

It's Saturday, and I've done it again. Spent the night before pouring alcohol down my neck like I was getting paid to, and yet coming home with 25p. Yes. And managed to upset someone I really didn't want to. Arguments, tears and tantrums. Last night's themes. I've got a post-Friday night hangover and such an awful cough I sound like I'm a 40-a-day smoker, and I've never touched a cigarette. I'm feeling so guilty, so bitchy, so...nasty. I don't feel like me today. I feel like someone else. Sitting in my room, blasting party-ish music as some sort of motivational attempt to convince myself, and my liver, that I can actually hack hitting Sunderland tonight for Betty's birthday celebrations. I drink too much. I feel hideous. I don't look much better. This is all stupid and disjointed, because I'm half-hungover, half genuinely ill, although no one in my house seems to fathom the 'genuine' part. I wonder why.
I'm drowning out the bad stuff. Or attempting it anyway. Life, I guess, goes on, whether you're happy or unhappy, upset or angry. I guess the bad times make the good times even better. I wish I was an optimist. I wish I was a glass-half-full kind of person, but I'm really not. I don't even get the concept. I love everyone in my life right now. Why is it that the nice people get screwed over and I end up trusting the ones I shouldn't?

My head is well-and-truly battered. I smell like a brewery and I feel like I'm still slurring my words. I've only had like three and a half hours sleep and I don't know how much longer I can last before I drift into a deep, deep sleep mid-sentence. I'm feeling the 'horrible person' vibe today. I don't know what to do with it. Advice is being thrown at me left, right and centre, but I guess I have to, and do make my own decisions. Whether they're good or bad, will remain to be seen. I'm forgetting everything for now. I'm going to slap some make up on, to make myself look less like an extra from a zombie film and more like a human being, albeit a very unwell one. Things get better in time. Apologies wear thin, but they don't lose their sentiment. Well, mine don't anyway. I'm just saying.

I'm going for a Nando's. I need comfort food.

Tuesday, 6 August 2013

You don't even know.

Every day that goes by that you fail to acknowledge my existence, a part of my insides begins to rupture. Breathing, just to get by, not to savor the cold, sharp in take of air, the freedom, the excitement, the sheer thrill in knowing your lungs not only exist, but thrive. That's what I wait for. Someone like you to sweep me off my feet, take my breath away, and yet still, I'm gasping. Still, the thrill is as real as ever and I'm the one standing on the edge of the curb at 4am with a bottle of Jack and skyscraper heels and overly-applied eye-liner, and I laugh drunkenly and almost topple off the curb-side, and there you are, miraculously; to catch me.

Nobody really knows how much someone else is aware of. So, start smiling.
Anything is possible. I realise that now.

The little monster.

It's been shouted from the rooftops, hailed at the top of our lungs, and squealed every once or twice in the last few weeks. This little one here, who I have introduced just briefly before, back in late May, is Heidi, our puppy. She's very cute, fuzzy and gingery. Also, she's a zuchon. Now you're going "She's a what?" and we've seemingly become accustomed to that reaction from strangers. Heidi, as you see below, is a Shih-Tzu/Bichon Frise cross, although she kind of lacks the curliness you'd expect.

However, looks can be, and in this case, are decieving. This fuzzy little ball of fur, who is now 18-ish weeks old, has a devilish streak, so much so, you'd think she was one of Satan's little helpers from time to time. Don't get me wrong, we all love her very much. I mean, look at that face! How can you possible stay mad at that face? She's very popular, as you can imagine. She's slightly mental, but that means she's well at home with us lot. The mad gang, as my grandma calls us.

This is just a little snippet as to what's up in my life. (Not that the entirety of my blog isn't surrounding that already) but it's a bit more, I dunno, personal? yeah? Anyway, she looked particularly cute today, so I thought I'd blog about it. Just saying. #cutepuppypictures

Just call me Carrie Bradshaw.

Yes. In two senses. While the fictional Carrie B is very much an inspiration of mine when it comes to my writing and blogging, I'm also a huge lover of her according to her fashion sense, and of course, her wardrobe.I have just realised I never blog about fashion, and that's kind of weird. Anyone who knows me personally will realise how strange that actually is, as I really am a self-confessed shopaholic. I mean, not in those 'Oh, I occasionally buy things once a week' or whatever, I mean, like seriously. I have a slight problem. I can literally sit on fashion websites like ASOS, Miss Selfridge and River Island for hours, scouring through the latest fashion crazes and seeing if I can bag myself a bargain or treat myself to something a bit more extravagant. I've always loved clothes, but especially now I'm always out, I find myself constantly relying on those emails; I wait eagerly for my BlackBerry (yes, really) to receive updates about sales, discounts and the New-In sections of some of my favourite places to shop.

Unlike most, I don't really have a favourite shop. I have many. My wardrobe is generally a combination of New Look, Primark (yes, a must) River Island, Miss Selfridge, Dorothy Perkins and TopShop. Of course, there are others. A sneaky occasion dress from Lipsy or a steal I've nabbed in the Next sale, but usually, these are my go-to places for the latest trends, as well as some absolute bargains. Oh, and I'm a Premier member on ASOS, meaning I get immediate next-day delivery on anything I want to purchase. It's like Christmas every time I tap my keyboard and place an order.

I don't usually blog about fashion, because I feel like there are a lot of #fbloggers out there that know how to do it a lot better than I do, so I'm probably better off leaving it to the experts. Speaking of which, one of my closest friends, Tasha, has an amazing fashion blog, so check it out: here.

Anyway, I am head-over-heels, totally, irrevocably, in love with fashion; clothes, shoes, bags, jewellery. Anything, literally. I get a really huuuuge kick out of exchanging a wad of notes for something shiny, glittery or just absolutely stunning to wear for my next up-and-coming social event. So, what do I tend to buy? Well, I'm not entirely sure I go for a certain particular style, but rather a mix of a few. I'm a girly girl, so tend to pick pretty things over plain, but not always. I go through different phases; for example, I'm really, very strangely looking forward to autumn, because I'm super-excited to bag myself a real, sturdy leather jacket. One I can wear before the snow hits. One I can team with day-wear or even with a pair of heels, a dress and clutch for night-time escapades. I'm also really loving black wedges at the moment, and I've just bagged myself some perfect ones.

So, me and my little fashionista self will have to continue to haunt other people's blogs, finding their latest suggestions, and generally get a little kick out of seeing what everyone else is buying and wearing.

Monday, 5 August 2013


It never just rains, it pours.
How true that is.
Especially today.

I miss you.

I miss you so much that my tears taste even more bitter than usual. I hate that it's turned out like this. I want you back, with us, now. I want to scream and shout and get all hysterical and mad because there's nothing rational about the way I feel. I miss you so much. It's not fair. I want you back, I need you back, and yet I can't have you back. You're irreplaceable. And no one can fill that void. And sometimes, I think of you, and I just want to cry. I don't know if you'd like that or not. It's true though. I'm sad now. The physical signs show. I'm looking exhausted, my skin is bad, and therefore, I'm obviously worried or stressed out. It's not fair that you're not here. I feel so alone today, and it's you I want.

Sunday, 4 August 2013

Friends friends friends.

Everyone has them, everyone loves them, and today, it's the day to appreciate them, whoever they may be. Apparently, it's National Friendship day or something like that. This is just a very little message, to tell every single one of my ever-expanding friendship group, that I love them and will hold tightly onto them for dear life if needs be. They're irreplaceable and very special to me. And here we go, photos speak a thousand words.

Allie: take two.

Allie's life just got crazier. Allie is indecisive. She's less than serious. Probably "wild" in her habits, but she's beginning to not care. Life, in Allie's view, is too short to be sensible, and live by other people's rules. She's fickle and insecure, and undoubtedly, not the prettiest girl in the world. She finds it hard to distinguish truth from lies, because so many people tend to lie to her. She reads a lot, and takes in every word. Her friendship group is widening, and she welcomes that. She laughs a lot more now, and is trying hard to ignore what other people think, although it's difficult. She makes mistakes, and doesn't ever intentionally hurt anyone, but accidents happen.

Allie is self-conscious. The girl with the stretch marks, the bad skin, the total undeniable inability to handle her drink. The shy one. The nervous one. The one who, hopefully, in time, changes. For the better. Maybe, we'll see.

Ignorance is bliss.

I love this quote. I love everything about Richard Yates Revolutionary Road since I studied it for my A-level Literature coursework. It's very quotable. If you haven't read it, you must. Ignore the film, minus the very brilliant Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet reunion. It's too dark to enjoy, and all the best bits of the dialogue appear wooden and unfeeling. 

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. As you can read, it's ignorance. It's well known that while I'm a very sociable, people-person, I absolutely need my own space to breath. There is, in my mind, nothing better than being able to shut my bedroom door, and close the world out from time to time when everything seems to get too much. Too aggravating. Simply too loud. I never ever ever turn my phone off, and while I'm the easiest person in the world to get in touch with, there are times when I wish it was harder for people to contact me. Sometimes, I need to be left alone. To my own devices. To just watch a film, have a coffee or read a book. Love for my own space is actually one of the reasons why I didn't move out for Uni. First year kind of makes sense, you move out to get to know people, make friends, and sometimes, enemies. To get to experience the independence, the campus, and rolling in at 7am without worrying about disturbing your now-very-pissed-off relatives. But for me, all of this was overridden by something else. A need for something you just can't have. Alone-time. Second year is the same. A few friends suggested moving out, getting a flat and living together. But money was not the only factor holding me back. I like my own space. I like to be able to live away from my friends. I get irritated easily. So, in my book, ignorance sometimes is blissful. 

It's peaceful and relaxing, sometimes. It's nice, in my opinion, to be able to escape other peoples dramas and lives, and just live your own, in your own company. Maybe I'm weird. I don't know. Let me know, are you like this too? I want to know.

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Book #4: Will Grayson, Will Grayson.

The fifth and final John Green book I have read. I admit, I was dubious. Picking up this novel, I had already set it on a pretty high pedestal, and was worried it wouldn't follow suit. Thankfully, I was wrong. Will Grayson, Will Grayson follows the lives of two separate characters who share the same name, but very different lifestyles, until they miraculously, and somewhat weirdly, meet. I'm not entirely sure what I should, can or will say about this book. It left me speechless and smiling profusely.

I've said it before, and it's very likely I'll say it again, John Green is a literary genius. And I don't say that lightly. I mean, okay, I do tend to gush over books I like. But not without reason. And this time, I definitely have a reason to be gushing. Whereas I seemed to struggle to get into An Abundance of Katherines or Looking for Alaska, this one was different. While Will Grayson, Will Grayson deals with some really deep, meaningful topics, it's done so in a way that educates the reader, rather than making them feel really depressed. I mean, okay, I won't lie, it's very dark in places, but aren't all the best books? (See: We Need to Talk about Kevin.)

I mean, it depends what you're looking for in a book, I suppose. If you pick up WGWG expecting a weird mystery combined with a flowery love story, you best put it down and walk away immediately. It is not like that. At all. If you're looking for something dripping with happiness and laughter, maybe dare to read it. A very witty, very cleverly written novel. A new style from John Green, especially the dialogue. His characters are extremely loveable, especially Tiny (who you'll discover quite quickly in the book) and somewhat later, Jane. A book I never stopped laughing at, even with it's dark bits. It, I suppose, is a black comedy in a page. Very, very funny, as long as you are able to laugh at such serious topics every once in a while.

Intensely connected with society, life and difference. A book that should, not only inspire but educate it's readers. A book to open your mind, and hopefully, your heart, to everything and everyone. (In a lighter sense, obviously.) The characters are very loveable, even if you hate them sometimes. Also, probably one of Green's most shocking novels. You really won't see it coming.

I don't want to give too much away, so I think I'll leave it there. Pick it up, ignore the blurb, you'll be pleasantly surprised. Oh, and you'll probably, like me, wish you'd written it.

It's not always rainbows and butterflies, it's compromise.

Yes, I'm quoting Maroon 5, and yes, I really did love them before the days that Adam Levine and Wiz Khalifa joined forces to flash their tatts and collaborate with Payphone. This line of lyrics from one of my (and probably a lot of others) all-time favourite songs, She will be loved, has been stuck in my head all morning. Well, all morning would actually imply something false, as I've only been conscious for about ninety minutes. Alcohol-related, obviously. So, in true Carrie Bradshaw style, I got to thinking. (hey, that's topical and I haven't even meant to do what I'm about to do.)

I got to thinking about compromise. From a young age, our generation has been encouraged to express our passions and follow our dreams, yet at the grand almost-old-age of twenty, I'm now being told I need the very clichéd "back-up plan", y'know, just in case all this Dreaming Big may be, in fact, too big. What am I supposed to do, when I'm torn between following my passions, and actually being realistic? There aren't many people surrounding me who actually truly, hand-on-heart, believe that I'm going to make it as some big, hot-shot writer, and earn millions and live such a lux lifestyle that I'll never have to worry about being crippled with my fourty grand of student debt. I know I'm a dreamer, I always have been. But if I don't try, I'll spend my entire life wondering. Like your uncle, who after a few-too-many pints, tells everyone "I could've been the next Beckham" and wonders why the dinner table is filled with an awkward combination of laughs and knowing glances. Unfulfilled passions are, it seems, as taboo as following your dreams sometimes. I've seen the way my grandparents sometimes look at me when I talk about University life. I'm waiting for my grandad to say "that would never happen in my day" or something equally as stereotypical. Sometimes, I'm made to feel like a pariah, a disappointment, because I chose a degree I'm passionate about over something that will get me a steady job at the end of the three years. 

"Teaching, what about teaching?!" If I had a pound for every time I'd been asked that from a relative, friend or mere acquaintance when talking about that foreign territory, after university. I'm not entirely sure what they're waiting for me to say. I mean, there's nothing wrong with being a teacher, don't get me wrong, I'm not sitting here, slagging off someone else's choice of career path, I just know it's not for me. I had the most amazing group of English teachers at school, and one or two of them in particular probably inspired me to write, rather than to teach. Maybe that's backwards, I don't know, but however good they were at their job, I knew that while everyone else was discussing the significance of the green light in Gatsby, it wasn't the exam I was thinking of. I was sitting, less-than-comfortably in those hard, ugly, plastic school chairs, thinking "this is what I want to do. I want to write something like this." It just hit me. Like a train. I wanted to write, I wanted, in sixty years time, for students to be sitting down, at what are hopefully more comfortable chairs, in what I'll assume will be more developed classrooms, discussing my book. 

Ambitious? Of course, but I'd be lying if I said I was willing to compromise. Even though, it seems to be banded about all over the place. It seems such a dirty word. Every time I hear it, I want to scream and throw a four-year-old style temper tantrum. It's like "this is what I want, and I'm sure as hell going to get it." I just shrugged my shoulders writing this, because I don't know if it's possible that I can be any more true. 

But maybe, life is just one big compromise. That's a shocker. Tell me your face isn't really super straight now. Or are you wearing a downturned smile? Yes. That one. Perched huffily on your mouth. I understand that. I get what you feel right now. You don't want to hear it any more than I want to write it, but compromise is a big part of life, and we all, at some point, need to learn how to do it. Sometimes, it might not turn out so bad after all. Just because life doesn't turn out exactly like you expected, it doesn't mean it's wrong. I mean, didn't you see Sex and the City? Charlotte spends almost the entire series pin-pointing her ideal man; tall, dark, handsome, ambitious. Someone she can raise a family with. Someone polite, kind and very much like her. However, we see something miraculous happen. Our lovely, prim-and-proper Charlotte, ends up with Harry. Harry is short and bald and sarcastic, and bad-mannered and lazy and not at all what Charlotte set out to, I suppose, "achieve." Oh, and the last worm in the woodwork, he's Jewish. See, at this point, viewers are kind of torn. Is Charlotte going to run for the hills, because Harry isn't who she thought she'd end up with, or, against all odds, is she going to find happiness with someone other than her dreamed-up ideal? Well, I don't want to spoil it, but if you haven't seen it, where the hell have you been hiding?! You must live under a very large rock, because everyone knows what happens in Sex and the City. So, our lovely Charlotte ends up with Harry. Every glitch she encounters, she shrugs her shoulders at, and deals with it. Even if that means simply converting to Judaism.

Things don't always work out how you expected. Sometimes, compromise can be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

Charlotte: I'm seeing someone . . . sort of. It's ridiculoushe's soooo not my typeHe's bald. And short. And he talks with his mouth full, and . . . it's the best sex of my life.